


Delayed

by LetMeEntertainYou



Category: Queen (Band)
Genre: Ableist Language, Autism, Autistic!John, Gen, developmental delays, r slur
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-26
Updated: 2019-09-26
Packaged: 2020-10-28 23:15:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,735
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20786657
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LetMeEntertainYou/pseuds/LetMeEntertainYou
Summary: This is an aspect of autism people rarely talk about. I'm struggling with it. A vent piece I guess.





	Delayed

John awoke to the lovely sound of his alarm clock softly singing the Adventures of Winnie the Pooh theme song. He couldn’t help but to smile and hum along as the lull of sleep faded away from his eyes.

He let it play it’s tune as he stretched out his limbs, an array of cracks and creaks echoing through the empty room. With a big yawn, he sat up and pressed a button on the alarm, shaped like the silly old bear’s head. John let out a content sigh, looking around his bed at all his stuffed animals strewn about chaotically. He wondered if they all slept well as he did.

With a bit of effort, he got out of bed and wobbled over to his bathroom, rubbing eyes and yawning some more. After a quick trip to the loo, he set out on washing his mouth. His toothbrush was bright pink with hello kitty on the handle. It wasn’t his first choice, but he was quite fond of the cat too. With a strawberry flavored toothpaste, mint tasting way too strong, he brushed his teeth, a task he didn’t like to do.

Spitting into the sink, he rinsed his mouth, his head bobbing back up into place. He caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror. Wrinkles on his forehead. Grey growing well past his temples. John quickly exited the bathroom, his stomach grumbling, hopefully from hunger and not embarrassment.

He put on his house slippers, Mickey Mouse of course, and hurried over to the kitchen, ready to prepare himself the same breakfast he’s had for nearly 40 years. Cheese on toast with a cup of milk. Even after decades, the staple food never grew old.

John sung Part of Your World quietly to himself as he slapped on a slice of cheddar onto the toast simmering in the pan, a smile tweaking at his lips. He found breakfast to be one of the high points of his day. It was the few parts of a regular day he had all to himself. No one to bother him. No expectations. Just him and his toys to keep him company until the afternoon. He laughed when his voice cracked at the climax of the song.

With a plate of warm toast and a cold cup of milk in hand, John went to the living room, setting everything down on the floor before turning on his telly. Saturday morning cartoons were on. He heavily preferred his Disney VHS’s to whatever the BBC was playing, but the cartoons weren’t half bad. Munching on his toast, he happily rocked as he watched.

It was 11am when the phone rang. John frowned, not wanting to set down his Legos. He was very much enjoying lining them up for the 4th time in a row. He was working with just the animal Legos this morning, something he didn’t do often.

Pouting, John got up to grab the phone, mumbling a somewhat pleasant “Hello?”

“Deacy!” an excited Roger screeched on the other end of the phone. John cringed at how loud the blond was.

“Oh, hi, Roger.”

“Mornin’ John! Hey, me and Brian were getting together this evening. There’s this new restaurant that just opened up. Imported wines. A live band. Sophisticated as all hell. You want to come?”

John’s nose crinkled up the more Roger talked. Nasty wine? Weird unpredictable food? Music he didn’t care for? _And_ a suit and tie requirement? No thanks.

“That sounds stuffy,” John said honestly.

“You could use some stuffy in your life, mate. Come on. You can bring some of your fluffy friends if you’d like,” Roger said, a pleading lilt in his voice.

John shrugged to himself, a hand going into his hair to pull out a few strands, a nervous habit of his. “I don’t know. It sounds um…” _Adult-y_. “Like a lot for me, you know. Maybe we can do brunch or something soon.”

“Ah, alright, Deaks. Don’t say I didn’t invite you!” Roger said, disappointment in his tone, not that John would catch it. It wasn’t obvious enough because Roger expected that answer. John was never fond of refined things. Roger still tried after all these years.

“Yeah. Sorry. Bye bye, Rog.”

“Bye, John.”

John hung up, an anxious hand rubbing his chest. He tried to stop the bad thoughts that started to bubble in his head by throwing himself back into lining up his Legos, but it didn’t work.

He tried lining up his plushies on his bed, but the thoughts started to drip like cement into his chest.

He tried watching Snow White, but the thoughts began to feel like spider webs and char in his lungs.

He broke down, running into his bathroom, the quietest and darkest place in his house, slamming the door shut behind him.

Curled up on the cold tiles, as the tears began to pour down his face, his brain assaulted him with words.

_Delayed._

_Spaz._

_Man-child._

_Retard._

_Delayed._

_Stupid._

_Lagging._

_Delayed._

_Delayed._

** _Delayed._ **

John sobbed, his hands flying to either side of his head, hitting himself to make his thoughts go back to normal.

_You’ve got the brain of a 10-year-old stuck in a 39-year old’s body. It’s pathetic._

_The people around you only **pity** you._

_You’re not a **failure** to launch. You’re a failure to **thrive**._

_It was cute when you were 19. Now you just look **pitiful**._

_Have you even tried to **act your age**?_

_Your mother likes your sister better. She’s **a proper adult**. Married with kids. Working. _

_You need a babysitter to make sure you don’t starve or die._

_It’s **sad**._

_You’re an **embarrassment**._

_You’re not a man**. You’re a child.**_

John pressed his forehead to the floor, his chest aching with how hard he was crying. As more and more painful truths vomited themselves into his mind, he could only sink under their weight.

He tried to ignore it. And for a long time, it was easy to ignore. The words the therapist said to him.

“You’re developmentally delayed, John. You might not ever catch up. You might be stuck at a certain developmental age.”

At 15, it’s not too noticeable. 20, people just think you’re not one to take yourself too seriously. At 30, there must be something wrong with you. At 40, you’re a lost cause. A burden. On society, your friends and family and more importantly, _yourself_.

And despite what anyone said, it was _true_. John looked like an adult, but he didn’t have much going on upstairs. He couldn’t talk taxes or even pay his own. Doing laundry was always meltdown worthy. Wine tasted gross. The word sex made him giggle and the act was unimaginable. McDonald happy meals were a real treat and toys were rewards.

No matter how much the people around him said otherwise, he was a child. And it killed him. It _hurt_. The lack of maturity was blinding. The delay unable to be hidden. He was a walking freakshow and despite his best efforts, he was thoroughly stunted.

He wanted to be like his friends. So badly. Go to clubs with Freddie and not feel scared. Drink with Roger and not gag at the first sip and order a soda instead. Hell, he’d take sleazing around like Brian if it meant he’d be a real man.

But he was just a little boy. Trapped in a perpetual childhood that not even humiliation could wake him up from.

He liked the kid’s menus. And he liked watching Sesame Street. And he liked when his aides and carers came over and took over. He was a kid, through and through. It was only a shock because his body dare betray him by growing up, leaving his brain behind.

It wasn’t just embarrassing. It was isolating. He didn’t get along with adults. They didn’t understand him, and he didn’t understand them. It was a miracle the rest of Queen even tolerated him. He preferred children but one could see how bad of a look that was. So, who else did he have beside his Lego figures and his teddy bears?

His own mother coddled him, which felt both wonderful and shameful. He wasn’t a child. But he was. But he wasn’t.

John raked his fingers through his hair, tugging painfully at his scalp, his knees pulling up under him, a subconscious need to be small.

No therapist really understood the plight he went through. They all told him that it was okay. He was fine. Nothing to be ashamed about. But how easy was that to say when you weren’t a middle-aged man who needed a night light to sleep? Or a grown man afraid to cross the road without a _real_ adult’s hand to hold?

Nobody understood. Their reassuring words fell flat when it came to the reality around him. John was delayed and the world looked down on him for that.

He was like Peter Pan without a safe place to run to, surrounded by other people who too could not grow up.

It hurt.

It hurt all the time.

Every time he colored a coloring book, he knew he should be drinking a beer besides a wife who was expecting another kid. He knew he should be ordering filet mignon rather than chicken nuggets. He knew he should be so much more and so much better than he was.

John laid flat on the floor; his eyes physically unable to produce more tears. With all those thoughts jabbing at his skull, all he could do was throw himself to the floor and cry like a child. Even knowing he wanted more for himself, he couldn’t get up and do it.

He sniffled and hiccupped, his head pounding from how deeply he had been wailing.

All of these thoughts were too much for a child. Too big and scary. Complex and refined.

He sat up and slowly got up, his knees cracking as he did so. Without another whimper he went back to his room, crawling underneath his blankets, into the embrace of many furry friends. He closed his eyes, hugging a purple elephant to himself and prayed he’d be finally big tomorrow. An adult. All caught up. A prayer he’d been reciting for years.

He brought the elephant to his face, nuzzling the soft fabric. He wondered if the elephant would take a nap with him too.


End file.
